


the most important thing in life is learning how to fall

by atleastwestoletheshow (Silverwolf329)



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-24 15:54:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21740509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverwolf329/pseuds/atleastwestoletheshow
Summary: Loki falls.It does not end there.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	the most important thing in life is learning how to fall

Loki is falling.

He cannot quite say how long he has been falling for – a day, perhaps, or maybe a millennium. He is hard-pressed to remember a time before he was falling. Perhaps there was none. The void stretches thickly before him, stars and galaxies and universes rushing by him as he falls through Yggdrasil.

He was never so aware of the falling, however, until it stops.

The impact of his back against rock barely registers, so jarring is it to be lying still again. He ran out of breath to scream long ago, some time past the three thousandth galaxy, some time before time immemorial.

It hardly matters now.

Now, he is lying still – until he is not, and he is moving up rather than down. What a strange confluence of events, to happen within such quick succession. It has been barely a full revolution of the rock he lies on.

His body spins to find a man, or perhaps a creature, before him. He can feel the grip of the creature on him, holding him up. The creature is saying something, and perhaps he should find it concerning that the Allspeak seems to be failing him now, but he is far more interested in the strange planes of this creature’s form, the wooden flatness of his face, the long-limbed elegance of his hands, gesturing in some sort of strange, ritualistic circle.

And then he is screaming, the sound he had thought lost torn from his throat, the action almost agonizing in itself. Oh, how he thought he had known pain in his centuries of existence, but this is something else, pure feeling, something awful tearing into his very bones, his very soul.

Somehow, though, it is comforting. He has heard naught but his own screams, swallowed by the empty vacuum surrounding him, for so long. It is fitting that his own voice in his ear is how it will all end.

And then the screaming stops, and it takes a moment for him to register that strange creature asking him, “Who are you, to trespass upon the land of our great Father?”

Perhaps the Allspeak is not failing, after all.

He feels himself responding “I am Loki,” but where once a thousand thousand titles could have fallen from his lips, he finds none, not anymore. He is not Odinson, nor Laufeyson; he is not of Asgard or Jotunheim or any of the Nine, not anymore. He is not King, nor Son, nor Brother, nor Lord.

“I am Loki, god of lies,” he finds himself finishing. His earliest title, and now the only one that seems at all fit for his monstrous, abandoned form.

That, at least, seems to give the strange creature pause, as a strange, raspy sound tears itself from its throat. Laughter. Long has it been since he has heard laughter. “God?” the creature asks, “What claim have you to the title God?”

“The only claim,” Loki responds, and it is but second nature to gather the energy swirling around him, glimmers of green light surrounding his form, bringing him to the ground, and oh, how refreshing it is to be standing on his own two feet again.

“Interesting,” the creature muses, before it turns away. The dismissal, at least, is familiar, if not welcome. Loki’s knives flicker into existence in his hands. This day was always fated to end in blood, after all.

Every day is, when you are a monster.

Cold metal closes over his throat, drawing blood where it tears skin from his chin. And then he is screaming again, pain flickering up his skull and down his spine, and another creature steps before him, metal twisting over its gruesomely wrinkled face.

“Oh, little god,” the new creature murmurs. “Your little tricks hold no power here.”

Loki is kneeling now, though he does not remember how. “What manner of creature are you?” he spits. There is still fire running through his veins, and if he had had any measure of relief upon landing on this barren rock, it is gone now.

The thing’s lips quirk up in some parody of a smirk. “You may call me The Other, little god. My true name would melt your brain in your skull, and we have use for you yet.”

Loki’s head rolls ungracefully on the floor, and, oh, he is on the ground again. The fire still has not stopped rushing through him, immobilizing him, draining him. He has yet to decide if it is more welcome than the silence.

“My master Thanos will be here shortly. Do try to behave, little god.”

And the fire in his veins has suddenly been replaced with ice. The Mad Titan is coming. The Mad Titan, who leaves corpses floating like constellations across the galaxy. The Mad Titan, who crushes burns planets to the ground, leaves realms crushed like dust ground under his heel. The Mad Titan, whose army of ravenous dogs and madmen tear flesh from bone and leave nothing but empty husks, driven to madness by suffering.

He would gladly grovel at the All-Father’s feet again, look in his not-brother’s eyes and call him friend, but it is too late.

The Mad Titan is here, and Loki is afraid.

“Master,” the metal creature murmurs, pressing its face to the floor.

“Hm,” the Mad Titan grunts, voice shaking Loki’s breastbone in his chest. “What do you have here?”

The metal man rises from his knees, folding his hands neatly behind his back. “He calls himself a god, Master.”

The Titan grunts, settling in a stone throne that Loki had not noticed against the rocky background. He drums his fingers on the arm, a steady thump-thump-thump that vibrates with the beat of Loki’s heart.

“I am Loki,” he says, flicking out his tongue to wet dry, cracked lips. “God of lies.”

The Other moves to active his collar again, but is stalled by Thanos’ upheld hand. “The Asgardian prince?”

“I am not Asgardian,” Loki spits. “I am Jotun, a monster.” With that, he peels off the first layer of illusion from his skin, eyes hazing red, the frigid air surrounding this barren rock warm against his cobalt skin.

“Hmph,” Thanos grunts, turning away from him. “Find what entertainment you may from him.” His hand lowers, and the Other glides forward, a hint of a smirk on its misshapen face.

“Wait,” Loki gasps, pale-skin flickering back to life. “Wait, I can be of assistance to you.”

Thanos pauses, a corner of his lip twitching in what might be a smile, on a lesser being. “Oh? And what trust should I have in you, little god of little lies?”

Loki swallows around a suddenly-dry throat. “Thor. The Asgardian who resides on Midgard.”

The Mad Titan’s eyebrows lift, infinitesimally. “Yes?”

“We have… ties. I could convince him to return to Asgard, and leave Midgard defenseless.”

A moment, in which Loki can read nothing on the Titan’s face. Then, “And if I asked you to simply bring me Midgard itself?”

The relief is so strong that Loki lists, nearly toppling over before hastily righting himself on one shaking arm. “Yes,” Loki pants, tongue sandpaper-rough. “Yes, I can do that.” _Thor, forgive me._

But the Titan does not leave, eyes searching Loki’s face. “But first,” he grunts, redirecting his gaze to The Other. “Break him.”

A vicious, many-fanged grin breaks out on The Other's face, some broken parody of joy. “As you wish, Master.”

Loki’s struggles renew, but it is too little, too late. The fire re-ignites in his veins, burning through his body, liquid pain so sharp he is surprised his skin stays whole.

But The Other does not end there. It moves closer and closer, until it is touching Loki, until the smell of death invades Loki’s senses. The Other’s parody of a smile splits its face again, and its teeth glint in the light of a distant star. Its fingers are leathery and dry on Loki’s skin, and Loki shudders at the repulsive touch.

And then The Other begins its work. It plucks and peels and snaps and wrenches, separating skin from muscle and cartilage from bone. Loki screams until he can scream no more, then rasps his agony for the void of space to hear. He is falling again, falling through the layers of his own mind, until he curls, shrunken and shivering, in the deepest recesses of his own mind.

Then, something else touches him, deep in the viscera of his mind. He struggles, instinctively; touch means nothing but pain, and he cannot endure another second. He has broken, he has broken, and he is too weak to struggle any longer.

Bright blue envelopes him, washing out his shadows and the fold and the cracks. Bright blue, and he knows peace like he has never known. Bright blue, and he is finally free.

Loki does not truly awaken again until he is in some crater on the floor, a crater from impact, from some fall his body remembers even if his mind does not. Some great green monster stands before him, the blood of eighty mortals stains his hands, and hate shines from his brother’s eyes.

The irony of it all is too delicious to bear.

**Author's Note:**

> This work has been lounging on my computer for literal years, so I figured I might as well polish it up and post it. Weird to revisit freshly post-Avengers fandom, huh?


End file.
